The little things.

Today, I bought a wedding dress.

It's one of those things that's supposed to make you happy, fill you with glee, make you giddy and joyous all over because - heck - you've made it! You hit the jackpot! Every girl's dream, right?

And it was a sweet moment, sure. I did feel some lift of excitement. There was smiling involved.

And yet.

Lately, post-anxiety attack and in the midst of some ongoing health issues, I've been feeling pretty beat up and bruised, and my usually buoyant spirit subdued. Everything makes me sad, hurts my heart, throws me into fear. It seems as though my sensors for all the sadness in the world are on high alert. As I walk past people and look into their eyes, I sense their pain, their sorrow. And this makes me more pain-filled and sorrowful.

Needless to say, I'm super  useful these days.

In the midst of all this sadness swelling, this hyper-awareness to all that ails the world, I feel a bit guilty for wanting to just be happy about the simple things. What does this pretty beading on my dress matter if people are in danger around the world? Why do I care what food will be served or what my hair will look like when my friends and neighbors are at risk of being deported, when so many are sad or lonely or hungry?

And yet.

This is not a particularly helpful disposition. The world can be a sad, hard place, if not for the efforts of the buoyant, the brave, the optimistic. I'm not much use to anyone if I'm wallowing all the time.

And it's a little insulting, right? When I'm serving meals at our church's community dinner, my heart hurts for the people coming in out of the cold, who are suffering from illness or addiction or who knows what else. But while compassion is certainly in order, pity is not. Wallowing and over-identifying and seeing only sadness and despair does not do justice to the incredible resilience and strength of people. It diminishes them, dehumanizes them, reduces them to their hard places. It refuses to tell the whole, complex story of a person, it glazes over their triumphs, their potential, their dignity.

I was recently reading something by Thich Nhat Hanh, and it said something to the effect of "see and experience enough of the world's suffering to increase your compassion, but don't take in so much that you become overwhelmed with despair." (I've totally butchered that). And I think there is some truth there. Empathy is helpful, in that it reminds us that other people have feelings. Our identification with the suffering of others compels us to action. This is a good thing. And yet too much identification with suffering incapacitates us. It fills us with fear and loathing and means that we are incapable of taking action.

This is me, lately.

I'm grateful for my own struggles over the last month, because I truly believe that it is teaching me. My pain reminds me that I'm vulnerable. I'm not perfect. I'm not indestructible. Pema Chodron said that compassion is not a relationship of the healer and the wounded, but rather a relationship between equals. Suffering is quieting my "savior syndrome." Nobody needs my saving any more than I do.

And yet.

There is something about the over identification with suffering that is troubling to me. I want to believe that there is good in the world. I want to remain hopeful.  I want, so deeply, to take joy in small things. In dogs and babies and weddings. In listening to music or growing a tomato or shaking my hips to a Beyonce song. I want to believe that there is purpose to these small joys, too. That I am allowed to be happy, sometimes. That I don't always have to be sad, just because sadness exists.

Because that's how they get ya, right? That's how they win. The people in power create a world of sadness and steal your joy. To which I say, emphatically...no. No! No to joy stealing. Joy is motivating. Love is motivating. Beautiful dresses are motivating. These small things are not everything, but they are something. In a world of materialism, certainly we rely on things too much for our happiness. And yet just because materialism exists and can be destructive, doesn't mean that there is anything wrong with taking the occasional joy in the things of this earth. Right?

And so that's my prayer. To find some joy. To be happy when I see something silly. To relish in feeling beautiful once in awhile. To smile at small things. And in doing so, to find deep meaning and motivation to keep going, to keep trying, to keep acting. Because truly, for all those suffering in the world, all I wish for them is the same thing I wish for myself: the ability to love and be loved. To rejoice at small things. To feel the sun on their faces and smile with the heartbeat of the universe.

Love and hugs to all. 

Raindrops Redeux


Well, it happened. Long story short, on the evening of my 33rd birthday, I had what the doctor in the ER said was a panic attack. I won't go into the details of the sordid event, but let's just say, it's left me shaken.

I knew this was coming, I suppose. I've been tired for a long time, tired and a bit melancholy, my heart of love a dull beat under exhaustion and busyness and my incessant people pleasing.  I spent a lot of time pleasing people other than myself, saying yes when I should have said no, backing down when I could have stood up, squashing and squinching and pushing aside the still small voice inside of me.

Now much of this came from a good place. I love people, and I also hate perpetuating harm. So sometimes, when I disagreed with someone, rather than start a fight, I would try to see if from their perspective, try to listen, try to be open minded. The trouble is, sometimes I'm  so open to the minds of others that I forget another important mind and opinion: my own. Sometimes I get so lost in absorbing the hurts and fears and anger of others, diffusing it, forgiving it, trying to contain it, that I lose myself.

And that's not ok, right? If I believe (and I truly believe) that each person is sacred, that each person should be heard, that each person is uniquely loved and loveable, and at the same time, integral to the health of all humanity, then I need to extend that same belief to this guy (two  thumbs, pointing at me).

And yet this is a harder pill to swallow.

Sometimes, I reject the whole "self love, self compassion" thing. There is a part of me that believes it is selfishness, that in order to truly love  others, we must put down our own lives for them.

And yet, there is selfishness built into this rejection of self compassion. The truth is, some people on this planet love me. They love me dearly and deeply, and my pain does not serve them. It hurts them. They would want nothing more than to see me healthy and happy and thriving, with my voice in full, maybe even getting mad every now and again, if it meant my voice was being heard. I know this because I feel this way about all  the people I love. I think about my nieces.  Do I want them to become small, self-loathing people? People who do and say what others think is best, simply for the "benefit" of the other?

HELL. TO. THE. NO.

This is my nightmare, that these sweet babies would be anything other than their fully expressed and wonderful selves.

So back to me. 

What good does it do the world if I shrink? Nothing. I am here for a purpose. I don't always know what that purpose is, but I know I was made for something. My health is integral to the health of all humans.

I think of it like this: if the human family is a body, then all parts are important. The health of each single cell is important. If I'm  sick, I make the cell-buddies next to me sick, too. If I heal, my healing impacts and heals those around me. So as I heal, you heal. As you heal, I heal. Like it or not, we're in this together.

So I think this is my battle today and probably forever. I can't give up.  I need to heal. And I need to do so both gently and fiercely. Gently, I hold my tiny infant girl self. I hold her and I love her and I tell her she is loved and safe and wanted. Fiercely, I hold that same girl, and I help her get up when it's hard. I help her get out of bed when it isn't easy, to face the world and not hide in shame.

And frankly, I can't do this alone.

A little while ago, I asked God/the universe: hey. So, if you're out there and if you have a purpose for me....would you please let me know?

Of course, I expected a gentle voice. A quiet wind. A warm and happy feeling in my heart.

And instead I got this: panic. Existential anguish. A real and true fire in the belly and spirit.

God is telling me something, so I'm trying to listen.

And I'm trying to do it both gently and fiercely. Because ultimately, this call comes from love. It comes as a reminder. I cannot continue to live as I was living, with life as a blur, with my voice silenced and sad. That is not what I was made for. And it took a big shift, a big moment, to knock me out of it.

So  in this time, community, I ask for your help. For your support. For your wisdom. For your love. For your patience, grace and prayers. I am so grateful for each and every one of you.

Raindrops keep fallin'

Tonight I went to G’s house for dinner. Warm food, kind conversation. I love her house. G is understanding and empathetic, having endured a painful breakup several years ago herself, from the father of her children. In some ways, it was comforting. She has confirmed it: I am not insane! The crying, the stomachaches, the mind-carousel of thoughts, the crying over Norwegian goat cheese in the grocery store—these feelings, these physical manifestations of heartbreak are normal, expected parts of the healing process. And even better?  They are time limited. Eventually, as G and so many others have proven, we humans establish equilibrium. Although I may never look at goat cheese the same. 

On the other hand, it was painful to be out of my cave,  enjoying time with others, seeing a person on the other side of pain. Lately, when people talk, I struggle to comprehend. My face is pointed in the right direction.  My mouth smiles.  I laugh—…ha, ha, haaaa!!-. Perhaps an imperceptible beat too late, but still fairly convincing. But in my mind? I am thinking. Thinking, thinking, thinking. What should I have done differently? What have I done? What can I do to fix this? What will the coming months be like, looking at the Autumn leaves alone? What could I…woulda, shoulda, coulda…I can fix this, right? No, I need to let it go. Why won’t he call? And when will this person stop talking so I can escape to my car to cry?

 

After leaving Gaby’s (how long was I there? I have no idea) I park and walk to my apartment. The rain has stopped and I breathe in the delightful scent, so clean and new, so full of memories…damnit. An exquisite sadness twists at my heart. The lonely feeling again. Like an adult-sized version of the homesickness I used to feel at summer camp, like everything familiar is out of reach. And everything familiar is so much better than what I’m experiencing now. The unfamiliar. Nothing will ever compare. Noth. Ing. 

Look, Lady. I think to myself, trying to be stern. The glorious scent after rain? It’s glorious because it is. Yes, it reminds you of him. Yes, so many of your tender, happy memories are swept up in the scent of this rain. But even without him…doesn’t it smell ok? It wasn’t your relationship that made it smell sweet. It was the flowers, and the grass, the clean air. 

I try to think of another time I’ve enjoyed the rain. 

I am 8 years old and Mom and Dad say they will buy me a toy. With wide eyes, I look and look, wandering up the aisles, pushing my glasses up my nose, wringing my hands, filled with indecision. Dad suggests a stuffed squirrel. Cute. I think. But not what I want. Should I choose it so Dad will be happy? Will he be disappointed if I choose something else? Will it hurt his feelings?  Guilt squirms in my tummy. I’m such a worried kid! No…I calm down. He won’t mind. He said choose anything I want. So I continue to look until I see her—a doll! A baby doll that smells like baby powder. I put my nose up to her and breathe in her sweetness. I admire her delicate blue dress. This is it. My baby. Mom nods in approval. Dad pays for her and it’s raining as we walk side by side to the car. As Dad drives, I hold my baby and watch drops trickle down the windshield, the windows. It’s gray and wet outside and inside, I feel a little sad. I’m not sure why. I’m just that kind of kid! Maybe I wish I picked the squirrel? Maybe I’m feeling excited and worried about it being over too soon? I look down at my doll. I remember to be happy again. Dad smiles at me in the rear view mirror, and I feel safe. 

The same mixture of emotions, the same worry about pleasing others, the same existential crisis. God, what kind of kid was I?? What kind of kid worries about the impermanence of things?? The kind of kid that turns into a serious, dreary adult! 

Or you know what? Maybe I’m coating my memories with the colors of my current misery. I probably went home that night, watched TGIF with my siblings, ate a Kids Cuisine, and stayed up late to play with my doll. Even as a melancholy-prone person, I still know how to have a good time. 

Ack! -Your life is not over, Melbot. The rain still falls, the sun still rises. Your life will be filled with sadness, but it will also be defined by joy, forgiveness, and light-- if you let it. The rain keeps falling no matter who you know, who you love, and who loves you back. It keeps falling and it keeps smelling clean and fresh and sweet. You are going to be ok. You both are. 

Now check out this awesome video.

Cave Dweller

This past month has been a lonely one. To make a long (and personal) story, short (and impersonal), I did something that very much hurt someone I love. It's been a little over a month, and I am reeling from the aftermath, struggling with self worth, and attempting to put the pieces back together.

It's been a lonely journey. When you are the victim, you feel justified in seeking help and friendship. But when you are the offender, the fiendish orchestrator of your own woes, reaching out feels like permissive bullshit. Why should anyone feel bad for me? Why should I receive love and care? I deserve every ounce of pain that I feel.

Plus, it's shameful. The shock of possible rejection in my diminished state feels like too much. I already feel bad about myself. Why open up so people can make me feel worse? So I turn inward. I know there's a certain selfishness in this act. Darkness is what led to bad decisions, and dwelling in darkness is certainly not the way out.

Earlier this week, I was sitting at Greenlake when a friend called. Crying and overwhelmed, she said that she felt she would take a risk and reach out, hoping I was a safe place to land. This friend, by the way, has been one who has listened and supported me throughout this whole ordeal. I didn't know her well at the time, but I had taken a risk in reaching out, and now she was doing the same.

Something strange happened when I heard her voice. I was immediately knocked out of my insular funk. I tend to get tunnel vision, thinking only of the primacy of my problems, dwelling on their ultimate importance. But hearing the suffering of a friend, I snapped to attention. I'm not the only one in pain.

 As I gathered my things and walked to the car, I moved with more purpose than I had in over a month. Even shopping for groceries had more meaning--I prayed that the food would nourish us, both body and soul. Later, as I hugged my friend, entered her home, sat at her table, I felt welcomed--not just into her life, but into the human family.

Pema Chodron writes,

"In cultivating compassion, we draw from the wholeness of our being--our suffering, our empathy, as well as our cruelty and terror. It has to be this way. Compassion is not a relationship between the healer and the wounded. It's a relationship between equals. Only when we know our own darkness can we be present with the darkness of others. Compassion becomes real when we recognize our shared humanity."

Boy, do I know my own darkness. I have spent the last weeks indulging it, swimming in it, letting it own me. Like many, I always considered myself to be a "good" person. Realizing that I have the capacity to wound and hide and wound again was frightening. But even in darkness, there are odd lessons to be learned. Coming into such intimate contact with my own terror has opened me to misery, yes,but also to a new and generous compassion. I can sit with a friend in her moments of despair as an equal, a partner, and a fellow seeker. Both of us are the wounder and the wounded. And because of this, mutual healing can occur.

Sitting across the table, looking into her face, I felt a peace I haven't felt in much too long. Maybe I'm not alone. Maybe I'm not only defined by the darkness I sometimes fall into. Maybe there is room for both, for the darkness and the light, for the terror and the love. Maybe I am just me. Maybe you are just you. Maybe that's what it means to be human. 

I left that evening without all my problems solved. They weren't in tight boxes, ready to be packaged and tucked neatly away. They were still spilling over, messy and unforgettable. In fact, the next day brought more pain, deeper sadness, more acute loneliness. But there was a balm on my heart. The feeling I was not alone, that all around, human beings suffer and love and cry and rejoice in tandem. And I felt hope. Not hope like a thrilling expectation, like things are going to be great, swiftly and suddenly. But instead, hope felt like a gentle tug, a patient endurance. I'm going to keep going. It's not only me who soldiers on, but everyone. I'm not in this alone. We're in this together. 

Peace be with you!

I rise.

Truth time: I've had writers block for three, maybe four years. Maybe even five. When was the last time I wrote something fantastic? Something I dreamt about and awoke in the middle of the night, jotting in a blurry fever? It happens on rare and inspired occasion, but, sadly, "rare" is the focal word.

I remember in college, walking along the ship canal on the way to Fremont, writing in my head about rivers swelling into monster heads, gaping mouth ready to swallow me into darkness. I loved to write then, the burning in my busom a constant warmth. But I was also lonely then, and sad.

Jen, my roommate, had a lot of friends in college. The kind of friends who had bonfires on the beach at Golden Gardens, who snuck champagne into the dorms and took camping trips on Labor Day weekend. I, on the other hand, had boyfriends. One at a time, of course. It's not that I'm needy or that I even particularly like romance (in fact, I dislike it, but that's another issue). Moreso, I am a "best friend" kind of gal. In elementary school, I always had one friend, one great friend, who was with me all the time. The same went for college, except that in college, girls were more interested in dating boys and having tons to girlfriends to be my bestie. Jen was a friend from elementary school, and while we loved each other dearly, college meant the natural growing apart from our childhood selves. So in lieu of a best friend scenario, I chose boyfriends.

Having a boyfriend was a new thing for me--I didn't really date in high school, and I definitely wasn't one of those kids who "dated" in the fifth grade. But in my desperation for a daily buddy, my boyfriends sufficed in the best friend role. And it was a good thing. I'm still fond of the people I dated.

All this to say, I was pretty lonely in college, but my loneliness fueled creativity and creativity somehow gave way to a subtle pleasure. I loved writing. I love the idea of creating something out of nothing, of leaving something behind, of imprinting your thoughts into something tangible, readable.

This kind of sad, melancholy-driven artisanship, is not sustainable, however, and after I graduated, I found my own group of bonfire friends. And as I grew happier, and as I glowed in the light of new adventures, I began to fear writing.

It's a chicken or the egg situation with me and writing. Does the "sad" come first, or the writing? Or does the writing induce the sad? For years, I didn't want to find out. I was happy being happy, and I didn't need writing bringing me down, emo-ing me up, and bringing darkness into my new-found light.

But this kind of light--the light of experience and newness and novelty--is also not sustainable. And over time, my heart has felt the gap where writing used to be, the deep-dark glow of the long-sad nights of laying it all out on paper. And once again, I grew lonely. And once again, I wanted to write.

Writer's block, however, is a bitch. And the pressure of writing, just like the pressure of trying to recapture some past and sacred emotion--like romance--is heavy and impossible. How can I get back to that place of blissful writing sadness, that pandora's box of weird emotion and creative energy? Do I have to get all "thinky" again? Do I have to tap into my inner goth-child, my tired angsty teenager? Or is there a new fountain of creativity--an adult kind, a confident kind, a kind of creativity that is compatible with the woman I have become. A creativity that recognizes my growth, my healthy passion, my fear and persistence?

I hope so. Because I miss this. And wan, lonely me from college yesteryear needs to meet the woman she will become, just as much as who I am today must reconnect with her roots, find her glasses, and get her nerd on.

I like to think there's a happy medium.